Of A Stranger
by martiansarepeopletoo
Summary: 'I met Castiel Novak one rainy afternoon in a run down old cafe. He was my best friend. Then, after what happened to you, things changed. Everything changed. And nothing more than me.' Destiel AU. Terminal illness theme in later chapters.
1. Sherlock Holmes

**So I discovered Supernatural a couple of months ago, and I'm in love with Destiel. Also, there can never be enough AUs for this show, so I decided to write one of my own. Enjoy!**

**Author's note: I am British, and this story has not been changed to follow American wording etc. It's not specifically set in a particular country, but if this bothers you, just pretend it's set in the UK. Thanks!  
**

* * *

Sometimes, thinks Dean, punching his senior manager in the face would really be worth the consequences.

The smarmy git smiles at him as if he can read his mind. Knowing Charlie, he probably can. Dean wouldn't put it past him.

"I'm _so_ sorry Dean, but Eleanor's got the flu and Jack can't make it here this early after school."

The way he says _school_ sets Dean's teeth on edge. As if he knows a fucking thing about Dean's education, or lack thereof.

"It's only three extra hours a week. You don't mind, do you Deano?"

_Well, you're really giving me a goddamn choice, aren't you_, thinks Dean as he looks at the patronising little smirk on Charlie's face.

"It's fine," he says, forcing himself not to return that mocking grin, because like it or not Charlie's the one who puts money in his pocket, and God knows he needs it. The work might be crap, but it keeps a roof over his head, and that has to be his priority.

Besides, the extra money for the shifts won't exactly hurt. But one of the negatives about working in a twenty-four hour café – and there are very few positives – is that the shifts can be a bloody nightmare. He already works solidly from nine am to eight pm, and staying till fucking eleven isn't really something he fancies doing. Also, being seventeen, working fifty-five hours a week isn't exactly legal, but hey, he needs the money and it's only a few months till he's eighteen anyway. Charlie and the rest of the staff need never know they're employing him illegally. He hopes.

Dean shuffles back across the greasy lino to the counter. Most of the kids from the nearby schools have been and gone now, but there's still one sitting at a table next to the window, head firmly lost in a book. Dean's surprised when he sees the blue and green of the tie – not many of the private school kids come in here, choosing to spend their small fortunes of dinner money elsewhere. But this boy doesn't seem to mind the wobbly tables and damp spotted walls, locked away inside his book. There's no evidence of an order on the kid's table, though, so Dean picks up his pad with a sigh and heads over.

"Can I help you?" he asks, and the boy jumps. He glances up, then looks relieved.

"Sorry, I didn't notice you come over," he grins awkwardly. _Jesus Christ,_ thinks Dean, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Can I help you?" he repeats.

"Oh, um, hang on," says the kid as he skims the laminated peach menu. "Just a coke and some chips, please." Dean notes it down and then heads back behind the counter. As he grabs the coke from the mini fridge and begins to shovel chips onto a battered plate from the fryer, he notices the boy has picked up his book again and has the same dreamy concentration on his face as before. Dean's never really been one for reading, and he can't imagine how a bunch of words can possibly amount to the enthrallment spread across the boy's features. He shakes his head, and goes back to loading up the plate.

When he puts the food down on the table, the boy looks up at him and smiles.

"Thanks."

"Didn't scare you, did I?" grins Dean, looking at the book that the boy sets down. The boy laughs.

"Sorry about that. You know what it's like when you're reading a good book, you can get a bit lost in it sometimes.'

_Can you?_ thinks Dean.

"Must be a good one to get you that into it," he answers, focusing on the cover. It reads 'A Study in Scarlet'. He has a vague feeling he's heard the title before, but he can't think where.

"Sherlock Holmes," says the boy reverently, and Dean looks up, surprised by his tone and the look in his deep blue eyes. "Hound of the Baskervilles is my favourite, but I do like the first one."

Dean's heard of Sherlock Holmes, of course, but the rest of the boy's sentence makes no sense whatsoever.

"Yeah, I think I saw the film a couple of years ago," he says, racking his brains. "Robert Downey Jr, right?"

The boy makes a face. Dean wonders what he's said wrong.

"What?"

"Well, the film's okay, I suppose," replies the boy, scratching his head, "but the books are in an entirely different league."

Dean thinks for a few seconds.

"Weren't they written, like, a hundred years ago or something, though?"

The boy smiles, the same smile he'd given Dean when the food had arrived. "Yes. And that's what makes them so good." Dean expects him to say more, but he doesn't, so he grunts an "enjoy your meal" and shuffles back to the greasy counter. The boy's piercing eyes follow him, but as soon as he realises Dean can see him looking his attention focuses back on this book, his left hand absently lifting chips to his mouth. Shaking his head, Dean turns to another waiting customer. Some people are just naturally born nutters.

It's nearly two when the kid glances up at the clock. His eyes widen, and he throws his book into his bag, leaping to his feet. He hurries to the counter, tapping his foot impatiently as he waits for Dean to ring up his order.

"Late back?" Dean asks, looking at the boy's frantic face.

"I've got to be in maths in exactly seven minutes!" the kid says, panic all over his face. It's a five-minute walk to the school but from the expression on his face anyone would think it was a three-day hike. Dean's guessing the kid's never been so much as a minute late for a lesson in his life.

"Three twenty, please," he says. The boy stuffs a fiver into his hand.

"Keep the change," he half shouts as he runs out of the door and up the hill. Dean just smiles. Yeah. Fucking nutter.

* * *

"So you left school at sixteen?" asks Castiel, eyes wide as he takes a sip of his coke. Dean chuckles at his expression and nods, stretching his arms out as he does so.

"Yeah. My own fault, I guess. Shouldn't have let them catch me smoking weed at break."

Castiel's eyes widen even further, if that is possible.

"You – you did _drugs_ – at school?"

"I smoked a bloody joint at school. Te rest happened outside." Dean sighs. He can see he's going to have to tell him.

He isn't sure how this happened. The boy had come in for lunch again, and Dean had served him, at which point the kid had introduced himself as Castiel Novak and thanked him for putting up with his Sherlock Holmes nerding the previous day. Dean had laughed, and made some remark, which had got them talking. Now, they were on the subject of Dean's life. He's sat opposite Castiel at his table, his own coke stood in front of him. He should really be working, but the café's dead anyway, and there's a new girl working who's desperate to do her job properly so he's fairly sure all's okay.

He focuses on Castiel's bright blue eyes, as engrossed by Dean's story as he was by his precious Sherlock Holmes. The fascination's genuine, and Dean wonder's where to begin.

"Well," he hesitates, thinking back, "the thing is, my school never really _understood_ me."

Damn right it didn't. Coming from the estate, everyone was prejudiced against him anyway. Coupled with the fact that his temper was rather short, and his peers were so fond of provoking him, what chance had he really had? Of course, he's never done more than weed at school. He wasn't completely stupid. But one of his mates had a big brother who knew a serious dealer, and soon he'd been getting high regularly on God knew what. But then, after… after something had happened that made him see the error of his ways, he'd started getting confidential help. Time after time they'd tried to put him in rehab, but he couldn't be away from home for any length of time, not after what had happened, and he'd had to fight himself so hard to get better. He'd almost been completely clean when the school had found him on the field, joint in hand, and kicked him out. His parents had washed their hands of him, and in a fit of rage he'd walked out, leaving him homeless with no qualifications and no money. Crashing at friend's houses, he'd managed to get the job at the café. A few lies on his application form had gotten him the extra hours, and he now rented a tiny flat, which he shared with a kid from the nearby university. Thankfully, his roommate spent most of his time at his girlfriend's, so Dean pretty much had the run of the place.

"And you've never wanted to go back? To school, I mean?" asks Castiel. Dean shrugs.

"Wow." Castiel looks amazed. "You've really _lived_."

"Oh, trust me, there's nothing that great about 'living', I promise you," grins Dean. "So, what about you?"

Castiel's eyes flicker downwards, but Dean can't tell why.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing," sighs Castiel. "I'm just not really very – interesting, compared to you especially."

Dean thinks of all the private school kids he's seen around the town. Always loaded with money, overconfident, with an entourage of friends. Although he's certainly not poor, Castiel doesn't really seem to fit the bill otherwise. Still, he takes a stab in the dark, because Castiel's looking really awkward about it and somebody needs to say something.

"Let me guess," says Dean, looking Castiel up and down mock detective style. "Big house, loads of siblings, fancy 'office' dad, mother who lunches, brought up by nannies?"

Castiel laughs.

"Not very accurate, I'm afraid," he replies. "Well, our house if kind of big, I suppose, but I've only got one sister, and she's off at university most of the time. And my parents… well, they're a bit – a bit _different._"

Dean's slightly surprised at how intrigued he is. "Go on," he urges.

"Well, they're – look, I'm not embarrassed by them or anything. I love them to bits, but some people can be a bit – close minded about this sort of thing." Castiel stammers his sentences out, his face slowly colouring. "I never usually tell anyone. The boys at my school, anyway, they can be real – dicks about it, if I'm being honest."

"About what? They the sort of parents who go on tantric sex retreats, or something?" jokes Dean, picking up his coke again.

"No…" says Castiel, slowly. "They're lesbians."

Dean almost chokes on his drink. Whatever he'd been expecting, that had not been it.

"Something wrong with that?" asks Castiel defensively.

"No, no!" coughs Dean, shaking his head as he tries to get rid of the excess coke he swallowed. "No, I've got nothing against – you know, gay guys. Or girls. You know."

Castiel visibly relaxes. "Good. Some people are just – they're pretty horrendous about it."

Dean nods. "I had a friend – Bobby – he had two dads. I guess being exposed to it from a young age kind of stopped the possibility of me being prejudiced about it, or something."

Castiel smiles. "I didn't know my dad," he says. "He was a sperm donor, but I never met him. Good friends with my mums, he offered when they started talking about wanting kids. He's Anna's dad too – Anna, you know, my sister – but he got hit by a car before I was born."

Dean doesn't know what to say. How do you respond to someone telling you something like that?

"Um – so – so do you get upset about that, or - "

"No, not really," replies Castiel. "It would have been nice to have known him, though. They had it all organised, he was still going to be involved in my life like he was Anna's, he loved kids. But I've got my mums." He smiles again, and just looking at him do so makes Dean grin a bit too. Castiel's got one of those faces that are sort of infectious – he smiles, you smile, he cries, you feel crap – and the genuine happiness on his face would cheer anyone up.

Dean glances over to the wall to check on the time. It should be his lunch break soon, once all the midday customers have died down – not that he's done much work for the past hour – but he's looking forward to getting out of the café for an hour or so. As he focuses on the clock, he suddenly remembers something.

"Hey – Castiel – don't you have to be back for two?"

The dark haired boy's head whips up.

"Shit! Two minutes!" He leaps to his feet, and chucks a couple of coins Dean's way, before realising it isn't enough.

"Shit, I haven't got _time_…" he mutters, searching for his wallet. "Listen, Dean, can I give you the rest tomorrow? I can't find my money – thanks – bye!"

He's off out of the doors again like yesterday, and Dean laughs as he watches the boy crash into a couple of suit-clad men outside. Then, looking down, he notices Castiel's treasured copy of 'A Study in Scarlet' still lying on the table. He's about to call after him when he sees that Castiel's already on the other side of the street, and it would be pointless. So, standing up, he takes it back behind the counter and shoves it in his bag. He'll give it to Castiel tomorrow, and in the meantime he thinks he'll flick through it himself. See just what's so great about the writing of this 'Sir Arthur Conan Doyle'.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it, chapter two coming soon!**

**iliketotastetherainbow x  
**


	2. Fire

**New chapter, yay! Thanks for reading, I hope you're enjoying it :)**

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'And don't you just want to punch Lestrade sometimes? I mean, it's like, yeah, the guy's smarter than you, get the fuck over it.'

Castiel smiles as Dean gabbles.

'I'm pleased you've taken such a liking to it.'

'And reading it's your _homework_?' asks Dean for the fiftieth time, trying to comprehend how this is possible.

'Well, I've already read all of them, but I wasn't exactly going to turn down the opportunity to have another look through them,' grins Castiel.

They sit on the same table as before. Kayleigh, the new girl, seems positively thrilled when Dean asks her to cover for him, desperate for more responsibility. After he'd given Castiel his book back (to great relief), he'd grabbed a couple of cokes and parked up next to the dark haired boy, desperate to discuss the book. He'd read it all in one evening, an astonishing feat considering the weeks it had taken for him to crawl through 'Of Mice and Men' at school.

'And the whole Mormon story thing! Oh my god, I could seriously have kept reading it forever.'

Castiel's smiling, and Dean's suddenly worried he's gone a bit overboard.

'Am I talking too much?'

'No, don't worry,' replies Castiel, a thoughtful expression stealing across his face. 'I don't think you'll find a bigger enthusiast than me. I – I could always lend you the next one, if you want? Only if you do want, that is, you don't have to or anything - '

Dean interrupts him. 'Yeah, that'd be awesome! What's number two called?'

'The Sign of Four. Not my favourite, but still great reading.'

If he's honest with himself, Dean's amazed at his own enthusiasm. He's never been a big reader, usually preferring to wait until the film comes out. But these books… they're gold. So easy to read, he'd felt as though he really was in Baker Street the previous night, discussing murders and theories. Maybe it is purely the genius writing, but he has a feeling Castiel's love of the books must have rubbed off him, despite only having known him for a couple of days. The book had been so battered and mended and comfortable and _loved_, it was hard to see how anyone couldn't become addicted to the brilliance of it on first read. Maybe he should start giving other books a chance, instead of letting them sit there unread. He never treated novels with any respect in school, but starting now doesn't seem like such a bad idea. Yeah. Maybe he will.

He looks up, about to ask Castiel is he knows of any other good authors, but the kid is sat there with a vaguely pained expression on his face.

'Hey, what's up?' Dean asks, concerned.

'What? Oh, nothing,' replies Castiel. 'Just thinking about school, you know.'

Dean nods.

'What is it really like at your school? We only ever knew it as the posh school where I'm from, nobody knew what it was actually like.'

Castiel looks up. 'You want me to answer that honestly?'

Dean nods again, wondering why Castiel looks so uncomfortable.

'Well, if I am being honest, it's – it's fucking hell on earth.'

Dean says nothing.

'Did – erm – did you get that?' asks Castiel confusedly.

'Oh, yeah. I'm just not that surprised, is all.' Replies Dean. 'I think I know what a lot of them can be like.'

'Prejudiced little shits, you mean?' asks Castiel conversationally. 'Yeah, most of them are. Not all, mind, but most.'

Dean nods slowly. 'I know. You see, my little brother – Sam – his girlfriend died in… in a fire.'

He doesn't need to say anymore. Castiel gasps.

'Not – not _the_ fire?'

Dean screws up his face, the memory of Sam's tortured screaming for Jessica ripping through him.

'Sam was only fifteen, and so was Jess. He would probably have died too if he hadn't left as early as he did. The under-eighteens club – well, it was really warm, and he felt really sick, so he started walking home, but Jess decided to stay. He couldn't have been more than 50 metres away when those – those fucking – those absolute - '

Dean stops to swallow, trying to keep his breathing even. Castiel already knows what had happened next of course – everyone in town knew, for Christ's sake – but Dean still keeps talking.

'And then those rich bastards thought it'd be a laugh to set the place on fire. Because they were drunk. And because of them, my little brother is still in counselling, because he saw his girlfriend run out of the building with her head on fire, and there was absolutely nothing he could do except scream.'

Castiel just covers Dean's hand with his own. 'Everyone lost someone because of that night. Nobody I knew personally died, but my one friend at school moved away from the trauma of losing his big sister.'

'And - none of the fucking bastards – even went to prison for it,' chokes Dean.

'They were minors. 'Unaccountable', they said. Expelled, of course, but there are plenty just like them still at school.'

Dean's grip on Castiel's hand tightens.

'Sometimes I wish I could rip them limb from limb. For what they did to Sam. For what they did to Jess. She was only two weeks past her fifteenth birthday, for fuck's sake.'

Castiel nods. 'I feel the same. For what they did to Jake. His sister got trampled in the rush to get out.'

'Do you know what really made me want to quit drugs? I can pinpoint the exact second. I was at the club, while they were still putting out the fire, and I was looking for Sam. I found him knelt next to her, holding her hand. Her body was barely scratched, but her face was all charred and crumbling away, and he was screaming at her to wake up. And I just thought – oh my God, I can't let there be even a vague chance of me dying, because I am never going to let Sam go through anything like that again. I had to carry him home, after he'd passed out from the shock and the yelling. I just couldn't put him through it again. He should never've had to endure it in the first place.'

Dean sucks in a deep breath. He can't believe what he's just said, he met this kid two days ago, and yet here his is spilling his guts like a girl. But something about Castiel invites Castiel, promises to listen, and God knows that's what Dean's needed for a while now. So he carries on holding the hand of a boy he barely knows in the middle of the greasy café he's supposed to be working in, and lets himself cry. An old guy with a hearing aid looks at him in a funny way, but he can go fuck himself as far as Dean's concerned.

'Do – do you still see Sam, at all?' asks Castiel hesitantly.

Dean wipes his eves and nods. 'It was my choice to leave. My parents pretty much hate me anyway, but they've never tried to stop Sammy visiting me, and thank God they haven't, or I don't know where I'd be.'

Castiel nods sympathetically.

'I wish I'd had a little brother.'

Dean lifts his head questioningly.

''I guess having a big sister meant there wasn't always time for 'boy stuff', you know, especially with two mums. I used to dream about it, though. I always pictured this tiny kid who'd follow me everywhere, and then when he got older he'd come to me for advice and stuff. Cheesy, I know, but I used to wish it was real so badly.'

Dean grins. Castiel's words have brought back memories of a much younger Sam, trailing around after him, crying when he couldn't follow him into school, yelling at his when he went into his room without his permission.

'Yeah, little brothers can be pretty awesome. But they can be a real pain in the ass too, sometimes.'

Kayleigh comes over to the table at that point.

'Um – Dean?'

He looks around. 'Yeah?'

'You said to tell you if Charlie came back – he's on his way in, so - '

'Thanks, Kayleigh,' smiles Dean. He turns back to Castiel. 'Sorry for abandoning you, but Charlie'll probably fire me if he comes in and I'm not working.'

'It's fine', replies Castiel. 'I'll be back tomorrow lunchtime anyway – I'll bring you the book then?'

'Sounds good,' grins Dean, getting to his feet at the same time as Castiel. 'Back to school?'

'Don't want to be late like yesterday,' answers Castiel. 'See you, Dean.' He nods briefly at Kayleigh, who blushes a bit, then walks out of the door. Dean watches his retreating back for a minute, then heads back behind the counter. As he begins to toss burgers, he grins. It's nice to have a friend again.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Please review!**

**Iliketotastetherainbow x**


	3. Sammy

**Okay, here's chapter three :) I've actually written the next chapter as well (which is impressive for me) so that should be up soon. Sorry for not updating sooner, I've had exams and shit. Anyway, on with the story!**

* * *

_Seriously, dude, I have absolutely no idea what's going on._

_**Just keep reading, you'll get there eventually!**_

_Is it more Mormon shit?_

**I'm not telling you, find out yourself :P**

_Urgh, fine. But don't blame me if I don't finish it before tomorrow. I'll get it out of you, through any means possible._

_**Bring it on.**_

Dean smirks at Castiel's latest text. He picks up the book again, trying to think of something which explains the situation that Holmes is currently investigating, but it's hard to figure out when Watson keeps deviating from the plot and informing the reader he's got another boner over this Mary Morstan. Truth be told, Dean wishes she'd piss off – he'd much rather be reading about the awesome deductions – but that's clearly not going to happen, so he continues with the latest on Miss Morstan's beauty with a sigh.

Lunch had been – a bit different today. Castiel had given him the book, and Dean had tried to engage him in a conversation about it, but the dark-haired boy had seemed very vague and uninterested. He'd had to leave early too, mumbling something about a school project, and Dean had felt thoroughly rejected until Castiel had turned around at the door and said, 'Hey – listen – shall we swap numbers? You can text me about how you're finding the book this evening, or something?'

Dean had agreed, relieved that Castiel was properly talking again, and he'd promised to text him once he'd started the first chapter. Castiel had seemed much more like normal through his texts, and Dean has assumed that whatever had been bothering him during the day had ceased.

Just as he turns the page on a new chapter, the doorbell rings, and Dean's instantly alert. He sends Castiel a quick text to explain why he won't be able to reply for a bit, then leaps to his feet and legs it to the door.

'Sammy!'

His sixteen year old brother grins, the dark mop of hair on his head falling into his eyes as he hugs Dean.

'How've you been?' he smiles, leaning back to get a good look at his brother. 'God, I swear you've gotten even taller since last week. What are they feeding you?'

Sam's shot up over the past year, easily overtaking Dean despite being a year younger. He's actually in danger of catching up with their dad, which is a terrifying thought considering the man clears the height of most door frames.

Sam laughs at Dean's words. 'Usual gruel, I'm afraid. Mum's on one of her healthy eating crazes, and I swear I've eaten more carrot sticks in the past week than all the rabbits at the pet store put together. I'm praying you have pizza?'

'Of course,' grins Dean. 'Only the very finest in my high class establishment.'

Sam heads into the poky living room, throwing himself on the sofa. He sniffs.

'You have damp,' he says disapprovingly, pointing at the dark patch of ceiling above his head.

'Well, cheap flats aren't usually known for their cleanliness,' replies Dean, heading into the kitchen to throw the pizza in the oven. 'Especially not if they're basement ones.'

Sam doesn't reply, and Dean pokes his head through the door.

'Sammy?'

Sam's staring at the book on the arm of the sofa, mouth open in mock astonishment.

'You're – you're _reading_?'

Dean groans at his brother's tone. 'Yes. Now shut up.'

'I didn't say anything!' protests Sam, hands raised.

'Yeah, but I know damn well you were thinking it,' replies Dean. Sam looks like he's going through some sort of internal struggle, and Dean can guess what he's going to say before his mouth is even open.

'Who the hell _convinced_ you?'

'Just a mate,' answers Dean.

'Dean, you are reading Sherlock Holmes. You. I have got to meet this guy. Getting you to read? He's a _hero_.'

'Yes, we all no I'm an uneducated Neanderthal,' sighs Dean. 'So shut up about it or I'll – give it here!'

His phone's beeped, and Sam's quick to snatch it up.

'Who's 'Castiel'?' he asks, frowning at the screen.

'I said give it here!'

'Is this the dude who got you to open a book? Let me send a reply, man, he deserves some sort of _reward_ – '

Dean snatches the phone off him. Scanning the reply – _**Okay, say hello to Sam for me**_ – he turns the phone off and shoves it in his pocket.

'Yes, he got me to fucking read. Happy?'

'What sort of a name is Castiel?' Sam asks in reply.

'He's one of the private school kids, they all have weird names – oh shit, no, Sam, he isn't one of them - '

Sam's gone sheet white, and Dean recognises the terror in his brother's eyes.

'Shit, do the counting thing, Sammy, do it, it'll make you feel better – shit, I'm sorry - '

He sees his brother mouth numbers, and sighs in relief when Sam's tense face relaxes.

'Sorry about that,' mumbles Sam. 'Theresa says I'm getting better – the triggers might be less profound soon, or something.'

Dean nods, squeezing his hand. 'Pizza?'

His brother smiles faintly, and Dean's heart lifts. He can't believe he could have been that stupid – anything to do with the private school has always been a major trigger for Sam's episodes. At least that particular episode had been a minor one, though… he can still remember the horrendous screaming of last year, when the accident was still fresh in everybody's minds, especially Sam's.

Sam doesn't speak the entire time Dean prepares dinner, opting to sit on the sofa and stare at the blank TV instead. This sort of behaviour used to really freak Dean out, but now he knows Sam's in a kind of 'recovery mode'. After his episodes, he usually needs about half an hour to relax, and Dean learnt the hard way that it's better not to interrupt him during this time. So he takes his time with the food and does a bit more reading, trying not to distract Sam. It's only when he's brought the pizza through that Sam opens his mouth again.

'So – this Castiel dude – where did you meet him? None of the places you usually go to tend to have many literate frequenters.'

Dean grins. 'Thanks for that.' Sam winks, and he laughs. 'No, Castiel eats lunch at the café.'

Sam makes no effort to hide his shock.

'A priva- a posh kid? Really?'

Dean nods. 'Yep. Between you and me, I don't think he's exactly a member of the popular crew, if you get my drift. But he's a cool guy, you'd like him. Hell, you'd get along like nobody's business. Both nerdy types, you know.'

'Hey!' Sam starts to protest, but Dean shoots him a withering look.

'Oh yeah, the book on Elvish and the seven different lightsabres are something every cool teenager should own? And let's not mention the Star Trek uniform which _still fits_ and the Doctor Who figurines that I happen to know fill the entire bottom drawer of your cabinet. And the _Austen novels_ – '

'Yeah, yeah, point made,' Sam cuts in hurriedly.

'And don't even get me started on the Harry Potter crap. Cloak, wand, two sets of books and the Daniel Radcliffe autograph? God, what am I saying, Castiel is on a completely different _planet_ of cool to you – hey!'

Sam's leapt on him and started wrestling, pretty pathetically Dean might add. Still, he lets Sam think he's got the upper hand for about 30 seconds, then employs the tickling tactic. They both collapse, hysterical, on the floor, pizza forgotten on the table.

'I wish you were still at home, Dean,' says Sam after he gets his breath back. 'I miss you. This.'

'I miss you too, Sammy,' answers Dean. 'Believe me, I'd rather be at home than here.

Sam opens his mouth as if to reply, but then shakes his head as if he's thought better of it. Getting up, he heads back over to the sofa and starts flicking through The Sign Of Four.

'So, what are these like then? I've been meaning to read them for a while.'

Dean describes the brilliance of the writing in detail, to a dumbfounded Sam. It's clear his brother can't believe he's taken such an interest in books.

'Apparently Hound of the Baskervilles is the best one, according to Castiel anyway, but it's better if I read them in order, so it's ages away. At least, that's what Castiel says.'

'You seem _very_ interested in this Castiel's opinion, Dean,' smirks Sam.

'Shut up,' says Dean, thumping his brother with a pillow. 'I met him _four days ago,_ for Christ's sake.'

'A lot can happen in four days.'

Dean can't help but laugh at Sam's tone, and decides to let him off.

They spend the evening watching a couple of DVDs and discussing how hot the new judge is on American Idol. It's the most relaxed evening Dean's had in a long while, and he finds himself feeling so desperately homesick that he almost caves in and begs Sam to take him back to their house right then and there. But deep down he knows what a mistake that would be, and so when Sam rises to leave he puts on a smile and reminds him they're going to a game on Sunday. Sam hugs him, then looks him straight in the eye and says, 'Seriously, Dean. I'm glad you've found a friend. I think it's been too long since you've had anyone other than me to talk to.'

Then he's gone, and Dean is left to wonder how this Castiel, private school kid and detective nerd, can possibly have made such an impact on his life in the space of less than a week.

* * *

**As always, thank you for reading! I love you all :)**

**Iliketotastetherainbow x**


	4. A Beautiful Room

**Thanks for being so patient, guys! I've had this ready for ages, it just look me forever to type up. This is one of the longest chapters I've ever written, because I'm crap at them, but thanks for bearing with me! Enjoy!**

* * *

"Shit, Dean, I'm sorry!"

Castiel looks horrified as Dean shrugs.

"Don't worry about it. It's not your fault.'

"Yes it is! I'm the one who's been keeping you from your lunch shifts!"

"Seriously, it's fine," replies Dean, putting his hand on Castiel's shoulder to calm him. "I told you, I haven't lost my job or anything, it's fine! 'As long as it doesn't happen again', Charlie said - "

"Maybe I should apologise to him," interrupts Castiel. "Then he won't punish you."

"All he's making me do is an extra cleaning shift. It's fine."

Castiel nods. He's late for school again, Dean notices, but he doesn't seem to mind. They're stood outside the café, and Dean's got to be back inside soon – his new cleaning shift starts in five minutes.

"I don't understand how he found out," says Castiel, glancing through the café window at the manager in question.

"Apparently some old guy complained that every time he'd been in the café for the past week, one of the staff members hadn't been working. Charlie likes to think of himself as a 'generous' manager, so he let me off with the extra shift. But if it happens again he _will_ fire me, so I guess that's the end of our little lunchtime meetings."

They look at each other for a minute, trying to hide how upset they are about this. The silence goes on for too long, and Dean's about to tear his eyes away from Castiel's – they're just _so_ blue – when Castiel opens his mouth to speak.

"Listen – Dean – do you maybe want to come round to my place sometime? It's just that – I've really enjoyed talking to you, this past week, and I'm just thinking if we can't meet up here we can always sort of – talk at mine?"

Dean grins, relief flooding him that this isn't goodbye.

"Yeah, that'd be great!" Castiel smiles back, looking just as relieved. "Tomorrow's Saturday, isn't it? I get off at five on Saturday, maybe I could come over then?"

Castiel nods, still smiling. Then, noticing the town clock, his smile fades, and he assumes the panicked 'I'm late!' expression that Dean has come to know so well.

"Okay – I'll text you my address tonight. See you around five, yeah?"

"Sure."

Castiel legs it up the hill, and Dean grins as he hurries back inside. Charlie's waiting, foot tapping.

"Cutting it fine there, Deano. Now that you've said your heartbreaking farewell to your boyfriend, maybe you'd like to get into that kitchen and start cleaning that floor?"

Dean rolls his eyes as he picks up his mop. "Aye aye, Captain."

"Don't push your luck," warns Charlie, as he turns to head to his office. Dean smirks at his manager's retreating back, and begins to wipe down the floor.

It's been about half an hour when he sees the trenchcoat. It's sitting in a box under the sink, and Dean remembers it from the previous lunchtime. That had been when Castiel had acted all weird, no wonder he'd forgotten it. Resolving to take it round to his friend's the following day, Dean begins to wonder what Castiel's house will be like. Most of the private school kids live up near the Meadows Avenue, and the houses there could easily swallow Dean's flat 20 times over. But Castiel's family doesn't sound like the stereotypical rich family, so maybe it won't be so embarrassing. Dean's actually hoping the mothers will be home – they sound pretty cool. And it's a pity it's a middle of term, as Anna, Castiel's sister, sounds pretty hot. But it'll be nice to take the time limit off their meetings. It's so weird, they only met five days ago, and yet Dean already feels he knows Castiel inside out. Maybe it's just the fact that he's been starved of human friendship for so long, but he's finding this lunchtime empty already.

He's never had a friend like Castiel. Not really. Stimulating conversation wasn't really part of the job description with his old gang, and it wasn't like anyone capable of intelligent speech would want to hang around with him anyway, the junkie from the estate. Dean realises now he's been settling for pretty poor companionship over the course of his life. Even Sammy, who he loves more than anyone, never approached him with anything more than the sort of things they'd discussed the previous evening, especially after the accident. No, intellectualism has never been Dean's forte, and he's pretty pissed off that it's taken him this long to appreciate it. Castiel's friendship can do him nothing but good, he's knows for certain, and he allows himself a grin as he thinks about the next day. Castiel's house is going to be awesome.

* * *

Shit.

Shit, shit, _shit_.

Dean stares, dumbfounded. '_The biggish house on the end'_, Castiel's text had read. But the way Dean sees it, there's big and then there's fucking _mansion_.

The house is impossibly white, four stories high and practically radiating wealth. The door is a pitch black, reflecting Dean's face in its shiny polish, and there is a large brass knocker in the direct centre. It stares at Dean, and Dean stares straight back, completely at a loss for words. He didn't even know people still _lived _in places like this – Christ, there are three cars in the drive, with space for a fourth – and anyway, from what he's heard he's imagined Castiel's family living somewhere a bit more – modest? Well, a bit less _ostentatious_, at any rate.

Sighing, Dean reaches out and grasps the huge knocker, thudding it against the door three times. It's opened almost immediately by a tall, thin woman with short red hair and the thickest spectacles Dean's ever seen. Paint is splattered all over her clothes, and there are about fifty necklaces of various shapes, sizes and colours swinging around her neck. She peers at Dean for a second, the her eyes widen and she pulls him through the door, a grin spread all over her face.

"Lucy! LUCY! It's Dean!"

There's a muffled running sound from above, and then Dean just has time to glimpse a woman with incredibly long blonde hair poke her head around the door at the top of the staircase before Castiel pushes past her and forces her back through it.

"For Christ's sake – put some _clothes _on, you know – it's a towel, you're practically naked!"

Dean can't help but laugh a little as he watches his friend wrestle with the woman, who has obviously just stepped out of the shower in nothing but a very small, deep green towel. As he shifts his gaze around the hall – which is fucking _huge_ by the way, there's even a _chandelier_ – he is tugged around by the redheaded woman. She beams at him.

"Dean, I'm Gabrielle, and that's Lucy. I am _so_ thrilled to meet you, Castiel's told us all about you – he doesn't really have many friends, bless him, so it's always nice for him to meet new people, and I'm so glad he's met you, you must be a really great guy considering how much he goes on about you – "

"Okay, thanks!" interrupts Castiel hurriedly, running down the stairs with a flushed face. Dean isn't sure if it's from embarrassment or just the fact that he's been wrestling a woman through a door for five minutes.

Gabrielle smiles at him. "Oh, don't worry, Cassie sweetheart, I'll stop embarrassing you."

"Jesus," mutters Castiel, going even redder. "Why don't you just get back to your pottery, or whatever?"

"Earth painting today, sweetheart, for the London exhibition."

"Fine! Off you go, then?"

She grins, and then heads off through a set of doors to the left.

Castiel grimaces at Dean, who mouths "_Cassie?"_ at him in disbelief.

"Shut up," groans Castiel. "Believe me, I didn't choose the name."

"Really? I was thinking of starting to use it, if I'm being honest - "

"Don't you fucking dare," warns Castiel. Dean laughs.

"Alright, then. Might shorten it to Cas, though, 'Castiel' always seems a bit long."

Castiel thinks for a second, then smiles and nods. "Cas it is."

Dean grins back. "So, you gonna show me round the rest of Buckingham Palace, then?"

It's even bigger than Dean had originally anticipated. Three kitchens, seven bedrooms, innumerable bathrooms, several 'TV rooms', and one place that Dean has no other name for than 'the drawing room'.

"Gabrielle's got her art stuff up in the left hand loft," comments Cas as they walk under a skylight.

"What exactly do your parents do?" asks Dean, wondering what job on earth pays this much money.

"Well, Gabrielle's an artist. Like, a proper one, she's got an exhibition on in London's Tate Modern in a couple of weeks. She does paintings for rich people who want their houses to look deep and meaningful." Cas rolls his eyes. "And, um, Lucy's a cardiothorasic surgeon. Heart and lung," he explains, seeing Dean's perplexed expression. "It sounds cool, but one time when I was five I went into her lab when the specimens were out, and I think I may have been mentally traumatised for life."

"You have a _lab_?" asks Dean, dumbstruck. The size of this house is ridiculous as it is.

"Not a proper one, just a room where Lucy works when she's at home."

"Jesus Christ," is all Dean has in response.

Cas winces. "I know."

They walk along the corridor, which doesn't seem to have an end. When they stop again, it's outside a dark wood door. The simplicity of it stands out amongst the glamour of the rest of the house, but Dean can tell the wood's expensive, as is the delicately shaped doorknob glowing softly in the light. Dean knows what lies behind this door before Castiel opens his mouth to say, "And this is my room."

The door swings open, and Dean's first impression is that he's walked into the city library. Every wall is covered in bookshelves, made of the same dark wood as the door. The elegance of the room is something Dean should really have anticipated, but he'd never predicted he would be this blown away.

Castiel's bed is sunk into the floor, and still manages to exude that classical air that oozes from the rest of the room despite looking far more modern. Next to it sits the most gorgeous record player Dean's ever seen, with stacks of vinyl records underneath. It's such a fucking _beautiful_ room, and Dean can't help comparing it to his own shabby bed tucked away in a cupboard of a room in his flat. But this room is Cas all over, and Dean tells him so.

Cas grins. "Thanks. I think.

"God, it's so posh. But like, a _good_ posh, you know?"

"Your eloquence astounds me."

"Shut the fuck up."

Dean walks over to the wall nearest the bed. He spots Charles Dickens and Oscar Wilde amongst the volumes, and turns round, amazed.

"Is this like a rule with you? No books under 100 years old?"

Cas laughs. "No, that's just my classics shelf. I do read modern stuff, I swear."

Dean smirks. "Right. And I'm guessing you have stuff like T.S. Eliot here too?"

"On that shelf, actually, but yes."

Dean rolls his eyes. "You're so fucking weird, man."

They pass the afternoon talking literature. The Dean of a week ago would have laughed at the thought of himself actually noting down the author's names, but the way Castiel talks about these books is so animated, so beautiful, that he can't help trying to match his enthusiasm.

"And this one – come on, Dean, _tell me_ you've read this one."

Dean shakes his head, laughing.

"But it's 'To Kill A Mockingbird'! As in, _the_ book of the 20th century!"

"Nope. Sorry. Seriously, Cas, I think in my case just assume I haven't read any of these, you'll probably be right. So what's this one about, then?"

Castiel almost seems lost for words at Dean's complete lack of understanding.

"Well, it's – it's about, you know, segregation, and prejudice, and childhood, and growing up, and – you know what, just take it. Take it! Expand your mind, for heaven's sake!"

Dean laughs again as Cas thrusts the book at him. "I really am that uneducated, aren't I?"

"Yes. You know absolutely nothing. Illiterate moron." Cas grins. 'I just can't believe you didn't like 'Of Mice and Men'."

"Dude, _nothing happened._ As far as I remember, Lennie liked rabbits, every word was representative of the Great Depression, and some slut died at the end. Not the most gripping of tales."

Dean's English teacher had analysed the book to death, and Dean had nearly died of boredom in those lessons. As far as he's concerned, there's nothing good to say about Of Mice and Men.

"Not every book needs to be read into as deeply as they say at school, Dean," says Cas. "You're supposed to enjoy them. That's the problem with today, nobody understands that reading is one of the most amazing things to do, because the only exposure they get to books sucks the plot so dry there's nothing left to explore. You're supposed to let the book do the talking, not beat it bloody until meaning presents itself."

Dean nods, no response to Cas's words crossing his mind. The truth of what Castiel has just said makes him feel a lot better about his ignorance and previous lack of curiosity, and it's only after a long moment of contemplating this that he realises no one's said anything, and suddenly he's aware of a charge in the air that wasn't there before. Castiel's bright blue eyes are staring straight into his, their burning intensity seeming to penetrate his skull, and Dean can think of nothing but _what the fuck_ because he doesn't want to look away. He doesn't know where the hell this has come from, but Castiel's eyes are so, so blue, and he thinks maybe he could drown in them if he keeps looking, and the silence keeps getting longer and longer. He can hear himself breathing far too loudly, and the suddenly Castiel is too close, much too close, and then Dean blinks and the moment's over. Awkwardness fills the air, and Dean desperately searches for something to say.

"So… erm… 'The Picture of Dorian Gray', what's that all about?"

As Castiel begins to explain, a strange look in his eyes, Dean starts to panic a little. He has no idea what the hell that was, because there is no way on God's green earth that there had been some sort of _sexual tension_ between Cas and himself. He's a guy, he likes boobs, for crying out loud, but there's no denying the air had been rife with some sort of electricity for much longer than a moment.

The afternoon passes without similar incident, but the awkwardness remains in the air. Dean finds himself noticing things he wouldn't normally in a million years – the shape and colour of Castiel's mouth, his long slender fingers, and those fucking eyes – God, the blueness of them. When he heads home later in the evening, they are still burnt brightly into his brain. He tells himself it's just because he hasn't had a girlfriend in years, he hasn't had social interaction with anyone but Sam for months, and it doesn't mean anything, but his heart won't stop pumping and he finds himself absolutely shit scared at the horrendous possibility that he has a _crush_ – God, he's turning into a teenage girl – on a guy he's known for less than a week. Actually, just the prospect of having a crush on any guy at all has him sweating, and so when he gets home he heads upstairs, pulls out his laptop and finds the dirtiest, _straightest_ porn he owns. He watches and watches until those blue eyes have been lost amongst fake blonde hair and faker boobs, and tries more than anything to forget the pangs of longing that he knows aren't going away any time soon.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I'm going away on holiday for pretty much four weeks solid, so there won't be any updates till then, but I should have the next chapter written when I get back ready to upload.**

**I love you all :)  
**

**Iliketotastetherainbow x  
**


	5. Missing

OKAY I'M SORRY IT'S BEEN SO LONG. Thanks for the patience! I've been on holiday and away and abroad and generally procrastinating but I HATE TYPING THINGS UP. Apologies, there's little Destiel in this one, but next chapter should leave shippers feeling pretty pleased... enjoy!

* * *

Dean blinks his eyes in the harsh sunlight streaming in through his window. Sitting up, he notices his laptop is still at the end of the bed, and realises he must have fallen asleep watching the video last night. This brings sinking feeling to his stomach and a pang of worry to his mind, because if there's one thing Dean is _not_ underappreciative of, it's porn, and that one has certainly never let him down before. Sighing, he gets up and shuffles to the kitchen, too tired to continue last night's Big Gay Crisis. Maybe later. For now, he pours himself a black coffee and plonks down on the couch. As he takes a sip, he closes his eyes, smiling at the thought of the morning off work before the game he's meeting Sam at later. The grin on his face disappears shortly after he turns on the TV, though, when he notices the time.

"11.45! Jesus!"

He's supposed to meeting Sam in exactly 15 minutes.

Throwing on a fresh t-shirt and running a hand through his hair, he legs it out to his '67 Chevy Impala and begins to drive at a speed he highly doubts is legal. He chews on some gum desperately, having not brushed his teeth, because the last thing he wants this morning is Sam's piss-taking 'morning breath' jokes. It vaguely crosses his mind that he's a lot more stressed out than he's normally be in a situation such as this, but he just blames it on work and Charlie (who, to be fair, can be traced back to as the start of most of Dean's problems) and shoves it out of mind.

God, Dean fucking _hates _traffic jams.

When he finally pulls up outside the store where he usually meets his brother, he's surprised to find Sam hasn't arrived yet. He quickly checks his phone for a message, but nothing appears, so he tries not to worry because hey, his brother is sixteen and can look after himself and it totally doesn't matter that he's never late for anything ever because Dean knows Sam would contact him in a second if there was an issue.

An hour later, the game's started and Dean is still sat in his car, distinctly Sam-less. Pulling out his mobile for the fiftieth time, there are still no new messages, and now he's definitely worried. He drives home, trying to stay calm because there's a million and one things that might have kept Sam from the game, and Dean has no reason to be imagining kidnapping scenarios or fucking stabbings in back alleys. It's just that Sam is usually so punctual, always, and when delays do occur he's on the phone to Dean within the minute. He forces himself to breathe, and heads inside, looking forward to a cold beer. As he sits back, switching on the game he's supposed to be at, he jumps because there's a kid in the stands who looks exactly like Sam. However, closer inspection reveals it's just a kid with a similar douchy haircut, and Dean tells himself to man the fuck up because Sam is _fine_. And so he sits there, fiddling with his phone and directing his unfocused eyes onto the screen. His team aren't exactly faring well, which was to be expected (they aren't what you'd call _fantastic_ players) but at the same time pisses him off royally, because he could do with some cheering up today. After the dismal final scores are announced, Dean lobs his beer bottle at the TV (it misses, but he hadn't really been aiming to hit) and sends Cas a text. Gay crush aside, he really needs a distraction.

His phone beeps back at him, and he reads a formal little message telling him that the number he has texted is outside his country, and is he sure he wants to send? He hits cancel with a sigh. He remembers now, yesterday Cas had told him his family were taking a weekend break to France – who even _does_ that, for Christ's sake? – and he wouldn't be back until late Monday evening. Dean very nearly throws his phone at the TV as well, but then he remembers he hasn't got the money to waste and so instead heads back to bed with a sigh. God knows he could use the sleep, and it's not like he's got anything else to do.

* * *

"What the hell do you mean, you don't know where he is?"

John Winchester is drunk. Dean can tell by the way he slurs his words, especially on the letter S. Dean wants to scream every time he mispronounces Sam's name, because he's only gone and fucking _lost_ Dean's little brother.

"Thought you'd have a better idea 'n me. Seems to spend all his time round at your place, ungrateful bastard - "

"_Dad_." Dean interrupts his father. "Don't you dare talk about Sam like that, you dick. _Tell me where he is._"

It's mid-afternoon, and Dean's been calling his father since seven am. John finally picked up around two, completely off his face, with apparently no knowledge as to where his son had been the previous day, and no interest in finding him now. John had always been one for the drink, but Dean had thought it had stopped since he'd left home, as the main cause of stress in the family. Now, he's worried. Why hadn't Sam mentioned this to him?

John mumbles something incoherent, but probably insulting, in reply. Dean punches the wall he's leaning against in anger, forcing himself to breathe through his nose as he walks over to the living room.

"Get mum on the phone. I can't talk to you any more."

"Ooh, gettin' a bit bitchy, aren't we there, boy?"

"Mum. Now, please."

"Listen here, boy, I ain't got a clue where she is, either. So I'm gonna tell you this one more time. _Fuck off._"

Dean hangs up without a word.

Exhaling, he leans back on the couch, and for the first time in a long while he feels a longing for a calming joint between his fingers, to take off the edge. He almost slaps himself – he's been doing too well for that to come along again, thank you very much – but he's glad he managed to throw all his kit out when he was going through rehab. Just the sight of a lighter might tempt him now, God knows what a needle would do to him. His arm actually itches just thinking about it, and he looks down to see the pale, fading scars. Cleaning up his act had been the hardest thing he'd ever done – he still remembers vividly the agonising cravings and nightmares. Clutching at his stomach, trying to claw his way inside his own body and rip out his organs, because it would hurt _so much less._ But it's been six month since he's so much as looked at an actual substance. Six months of being squeaky clean, no symptoms, just careful control and procedures. Barely touching alcohol (though that'd never been a major issue). There is no fucking way he's getting back into all that again. But the thought's tempting, so tempting, and as he gets into the car to head to the café he turns up the radio as loud as he can, singing out of tune to Kansas to block out his thoughts, and praying that they don't cross his mind again.

* * *

He's late for work. As Charlie gives him shit, he stands there with a glazed look, heart beating fast as it has been all day when he thinks about Sam. Where the fuck _is_ his little brother?

"You listening, Deano?"

Charlie eyes him suspiciously, and Dean just nods. He's too tired, and worried, and Charlie is not fucking worth the energy of a comeback.

"Honestly, I don't know what's gotten into you. You used to actually _work,_ you had _prospects_ at this café – maybe one day could even have worked your way up to Senior Supervisor and Acting Manager like me. But now… Deano, I'm seriously considering letting you go."

Dean begins to babble, heart pounding, because he _needs_ this job and nowhere else will take him without looking into his drug history and expulsion. Everything's going to shit at the moment, he can't lose his flat, because he can't go home, and apparently his mum's buggered off, and his dad's drunk, and _where the fuck is Sam_?

Of course, he doesn't tell Charlie this, but the hysterical tone his voice takes on as he promises to work harder actually causes a flicker of concern to cross Charlie's face.

"Erm… Deano… you – you are alright, aren't you?"

"_NO I AM NOT!"_ Dean wants to scream at him. _"I'VE LOST MY LITTLE BROTHER AND MY PARENTS HATE ME AND SO DO YOU AND I HAVE NO LIFE AND I WORK THIS STUPID JOB JUST TO STAY ALIVE BUT I DON'T REALLY SEE THE POINT IN IT ANYMORE, NOT TO MENTION THE FACT I AM WORRIED I MAY HAVE HOMOSEXUAL FEELINGS FOR THE ONLY FRIEND I'VE HAD IN YEARS AND THIS MORNING I SERIOUSLY CONSIDERED TAKING DRUGS AGAIN. I AM NOT FUCKING ALRIGHT!"_

Instead, he simply says, "Yeah, sure," and slumps off to do the dishes.

* * *

Once again, thanks for being so patient guys! I'll upload chapter six as soon as I've typed it up, and I suppose content wise it's one to look forward to... ;)

Iliketotastetherainbow x


	6. Comfort

Hey guys! *waves awkwardly* Thanks for being so patient! This takes me forever to write up, as I originally write everything down in a notebook and then type it all up on the computer, which takes AGES. The next couple of chapters are written, and should be up fairly soon. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one!

* * *

He can hear the phone ringing, but Dean does not want to get up at this time. Being Saturday, his one day off a week, he's become accustomed to sleeping late and doesn't really feel like breaking that routine, Still, he forces himself out of bed, because the way things are going at the moment some other God awful thing's probably happened, and he wouldn't want to miss out on that.

"Yeah?" he mutters groggily as he picks up the receiver.

"Dean?"

He nearly drops the phone. That voice belongs to Sam.

"Oh my god. Sammy. Sam – Jesus Christ."

He can feel tears pooling in his eyes, and squeezes them shut as he leans back against the wall.

"Shit, where the hell have you been, man?"

He hears Sam's exasperated sigh as he sinks into the old armchair next to his bed. Relief courses through his veins as he runs a hand through his hair. Sammy's alive, Sammy's safe, Sammy's fine –

"Dad was supposed to tell you."

Ice immediately takes the place of the relief, shocking his system as he hears the words. Burning rage at his father for whatever he's hidden from him. He better have a fucking good reason for it.

"Tell me what? Sammy, it's been a fucking week! I nearly called the police so many times, only Dad stopped me – said if we gave it a week and stayed calm – but I thought he was being normal for once, I thought it meant something! Where the fuck have you been?"

"I've been at home – in my room. I told Dad I was back, I guess he was just…"

Sam falters, and Dean senses there's something being kept secret here.

"What? Drunk?"

"I… yeah, I guess. Too out of it to notice me, anyway."

Dean forces himself to exhale, concentrating on the fact that Sam is alive and well and safe.

"I just don't understand why you didn't tell me about Dad, Sammy."

"I wanted to, Dean, I did, but – I thought you had enough to worry about."

The words hit home, hard, and Dean has to swallow back the lump that's risen in his throat. Sam's the one who's still mentally unstable, and yet he's the one trying to protect Dean?

"Okay, man. We'll talk about it later. Now tell me where you were, dude."

The change in Sam's tone is instantaneous.

"Oh. Uh – sorry, Dean, I have to go. I'll ring later. Bye - "

"Sam!" Dean's voice rises, but his brother has already hung up. He hits redial, but it goes straight to voicemail.

"Goddammit!" shouts Dean, throwing the phone down. He's not one who enjoys secrets being kept from him, and the way things are going it sounds as though Sam's been hiding his fair share. But this is ridiculous. Sam's been missing, Dean's been through fucking hell, he has every right to know where his brother's been. He'd been planning on calling the police that day – his brother missing for a week definitely warranted an emergency in his book. But not, apparently, his father's. Well, Dean's had enough.

Striding outside, he marches to his car and steps on the gas. He's outside his old front door in less than ten minutes, and thumps on it as loudly as possible.

"Dad! Open up! OPEN UP!"

Eventually, there comes a shuffling sound, and the door creaks open. Dean's mouth is open too, ready to shout until he's blue in the face, but instead his jaw hangs there as he takes in his father's appearance.

Bloodshot eyes, hair thick with grease, trembling hands and clothes that have clearly not been washed for weeks. Dean's eyes water at the odour, and he almost steps backwards when he sees the piles of dirty clothes and sheets littering the hallway, dotted with beer cans. It's so much worse than Dean imagined – this is absolutely repugnant.

John squints at Dean for a second, then his eyes widen in recognition.

"Thought I told you to fuck off, boy," he grunts. "And if this is about Sam - "

"Don't you dare," answers Dean harshly. "Don't you even fucking dare. How could you do that to me? All this time, he's been here, and I've been going out of my fucking mind!"

His voice breaks as he steps over the threshold. John raises his arms in defence, but his weakened reflexes mean Dean's faster and soon he's been slammed against the hallway wall.

"Where's mum? Where is she? Why the hell's she letting you get like this?"

Suddenly John shoves back, sloppy but still much stronger than Dean.

"She cleared off, boy! Had enough of me, enough of you stealing her son! I got no idea in hell where she is, but she made it pretty goddamn clear she ain't coming back!"

Dean lets go of his father. His mind's thrumming, his heart's pounding.

"She must have told Sam. She loves him so much. Did she tell him? Answer me!"

But his father's sunk to the floor, silent, clearly passed out. Dean swears and rakes his hands through his hair as he looks around.

"Sammy!" he calls upstairs, but there's no answer. He makes up his mind to come fetch his little brother soon, after everyone's had the chance to breathe and think things through. Keep him away from the violent, drunken piece of rage which used to be their father.

He storms outside, throws himself into his car and sits, not noticing the tears until they're coating his cheeks. He drags his hands across his face, wiping them away, and jumps when he feels the buzzing of his phone in his pocket. He pulls it out, and reads the text he's received every day for the past week.

_Any news on Sam?_

And now, he knows what he needs. He needs to fucking talk to someone who will listen, someone who genuinely cares. And, big gay crush aside, there's only one person he trusts with that.

He hits the green call button, and waits.

"Cas? It's Dean. Yeah, he's safe. No – no, look, it's complicated – listen, do you want to come round? Please, man. I'm fucking losing it."

He hears Cas' gentle voice reply, and Dean shuts his eyes in relief at the words.

"I'll be right there."

* * *

"Crap, Dean, what's happened?"

Cas stands in the doorway, taking in Dean's appearance in a manner not unlike the one with which Dean had viewed his father earlier. Admittedly, Dean doesn't look so great. It's taken Cas half an hour to get here, and in that time Dean's managed to sob hysterically, break a finger (he thinks) throwing one of his flatmate's chairs into the yard, and scratch himself raw with the ache for a needle. Cas stares at him with ill-disguised shock, only moving when Dean gestures for him to come through to the living room.

In the week that Sam's been missing, Cas has been over to Dean's twice, offering reassuring words and promising Sam's safety. Now, he sits next to Dean with a sombre expression, clearly ready to listen.

"He's been at the house this whole fucking time," Dean spits, "and nobody thought of maybe letting me actually know. I haven't got a clue where he was during the game, but he's been fine the rest of the time, and Dad obviously didn't give a shit either way, telling me didn't even cross his fucking mind" - he draws a shuddering breath, eyes squeezed shut – "and he's off his face, completely smashed, and my mum's pulled a fucking disappearing act, and now Sam's keeping things from me and I just don't know what to do."

Cas' brow is furrowed as he puts a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean tries to ignore the rush of adrenaline he feels at the touch, because now is not a good time, gay thoughts, but he can't help leaning into the hand just a little bit. He tells himself it's comforting, but this lie is so transparent even he can't cling to it for long.

Cas only has to say, "Dean, you do know none of this is your fault, don't you?" and the tears start. Thick and fast, they run down his face, because he's so sure that if he'd paid a bit more fucking attention and maybe checked up on his little brother's life occasionally, then none of this would be happening.

He cries openly, knowing Cas won't judge him for it, and Cas just sits there and seems to be telling him silently to let it all out. And now Dean's babbling about how he wants to get Sam to move in with him but he's never going to be able to afford it and he'd probably get kicked out of the flat anyway but he can't leave his brother with that thing that used to be his father, he just fucking can't. He's trembling, and scared, and this is so, so awful, all shaking hands and dripping tears and an aching broken finger. He twitches it as he looks up at Cas, wincing slightly as he does so. Cas' impossibly blue eyes are shining through his hazy vision, burning, and although he still remains silent, Dean feels a thousand words emanate from them. And now – oh God, he knows how stupid it is, but right this second he just wants to reach up and kiss Castiel until all the horror ebbs away. He knows he has a million reasons why this is an incredibly bad idea, and they must still be around somewhere inside his head, but he's far too raw and tired to care right now.

Fuck it, he thinks, and before he can stop himself he reaches forwards and presses his lips to Castiel's. Hard.

Everything is on fire. If he'd had any doubts about this before, they quickly dissipate as he threads his fingers through Cas' already mussed hair and pushes against him. Pressure, and heat, it's unlike any kiss he's ever had before. A thousand times better, they were all of them so inferior compared to this beautiful boy. Part of his is surprised at the lack of shame he feels as his tongue slides past Cas' lips – after all, lust for another guy is something he'd never in his wildest thoughts imagined he'd feel – and since that afternoon at Cas', he hasn't exactly been comfortable with his feelings. But this just seems so natural, Cas kissing him back, and everything intensifies as Cas drags his hands across Dean's back. Fucking hell, Cas' teeth are everywhere, and he pulls Dean down as he opens his mouth wide and – Jesus Christ, he actually moans. And suddenly there are hands everywhere, he can't tell which are his and which are Cas', heart spreading from his very core to the tips of his fingers and toes. Briefly, he wonders just how far this is going to go, because he can't imagine ever wanting to stop doing this right here. He wants to touch and kiss and hold and _keep – _nothing is ever going to come close to being enough. Lips and teeth and tongues are clashing desperately, and now Cas is slipping down under him, and oh God he can't think, he can't think, he can't think –

"Dean."

He tries to focus on the other boy, but his mind is swimming and he's not sure whether it's up to formulating a response.

"Y-yeah?" he manages to croak out.

Cas shuffles into a more upright position, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. Dean can't stop staring at his lips, deep red and slightly swollen, gently parted. They barely open as he speaks quietly, in his deep, hypnotic voice,

"Dean, what are we doing?"

"I'd have thought that was pretty obvious," replies Dean slightly hoarsely, feeling the bruising forming on his own mouth.

Cas, fully upright now (although still pressed rather tightly against the arm of the couch by Dean's chest), looks down. The sudden loss of eye contact makes Dean's heart drop into his stomach, as though it can sense what's coming next.

"I – I just – Dean, I know what you're going through is awful, and I want to help, I do, but… you can't just _use_ me like this. It isn't fair."

"Use you?" whispers Dean, his veins icy, "what do you mean, _use_ you?"

"You know that… you know" – Cas still refuses to look at him – "that I want this. I know you do. But I can't just be comfort to you, Dean, I can't - "

"_Comfort_?" says Dean incredulously. "That's what you think this is? I just want some – some form of escape from my fucked up life? You think I'm _manipulating_ you?"

Castiel's eyes flicker up for a second, filled with a sadness Dean's never seen there before.

"I know you don't want to hurt me, but I do have some self respect, Dean, and my feelings aren't something you can just mess around with like that."

"Cas, don't do this, _please_ don't do this, I need you to understand - "

"Understand what? I want you so fucking badly, Dean Winchester, but I'm not going to sit here and let you use me, pretending you feel the same way. I – I have to go. I can't stay. I really am sorry, Dean."

"Cas, wait - "

But he's already out the door, and Dean is left sat on the couch feeling like he's been gutted with a blunt knife and his insides have spilled out, leaving him hollow and empty.

And completely and utterly alone.

* * *

Thanks, as always, for bothering to read this! I hope you liked, and I'll post the next chapter as soon as possible. Love you guys!

Iliketotastetherainbow x


	7. Stars

Thanks for the patience guys, I'm sorry I'm so slow at updating this! It's NOT getting abandoned, don't worry, just taking me longer with the amount of school work I'm getting. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Sam sits on the sofa, worrying a hangnail as he nervously looks up at Dean. Dean is pacing the floor, trying to figure out a way to say what he needs to to his brother without sounding like either a royally pissed off son of a bitch or like he's blaming Sam. It's proving to be quite difficult.

"Sammy. Sam. You're sixteen years old, which is only like one and a half years younger than me, so I don't want to sound like I'm being patronising and trying to control your life or whatever. I get it, you're grown up and all that. But seriously dude, you can't just take off like that without telling me, yeah? My life's fucked up enough without having you to worry about."

"Dean, I'm sorry," begins Sam, tiredness in his voice. "But it was the only time – look, I need to tell you something."

"Sam, please don't change the subject," interjects Dean, sounding far more like his high school teacher than he's ever imagined he could. "Just – just let me know yourself next time. Don't leave it up to that dickhead."

Sam opens his mouth, but Dean holds up a hand. "I don't wanna hear it, Sammy. And one other thing – the drinking. Think you could maybe tell me about it if it happens again? Sometime before Dad gets paralytic would be _great_."

He sits down next to his brother, running his hands over his face. Since Cas left two nights previously, he's been on some sort of emotional rollercoaster – and just admitting that leads him to wonder how much more gay he could actually _be_. Okay, he kissed a guy, that probably _is_ more gay, but the point is he's a bit high-strung at the moment, and dealing with the whole family-falling-apart thing isn't exactly top of his Things I Really Want To Do list.

Sam turns to face him, with a similar sadness in his eyes to Cas the other night. Just thinking about it makes Dean wince slightly as his heart does another twist. It's been doing that a lot lately, and not in a nice way – in a fucking my-heart's-been-smashed-to-pieces kind of way.

"Dean, I have to tell you what's going on. The thing is, I've been getting these – these _headaches-_"

"Yeah, well try being me, they're a permanent part of the job description. Aspirin helps, apparently. Not that I'd know, my supervisor banned me from ever taking it again in case it lured me back into the evil ways of substance abuse-"

"Don't joke about that, Dean," snaps Sam. "I'm not in the mood for the memories of drug-addled you stumbling through my head, thanks very much."

"Whatever, Sammy," mumbles Dean. He's too tired, and too preoccupied with Cas for this.

"No, Dean! I'm trying to talk to you! Why do you _always_ do this? No wonder they kicked you out! You aren't even capable of having a normal conversation anymore, let alone about anything _serious-_"

"Shut up!" Dean hollers. He has no idea why he's gotten so angry, but everything Sam's saying seems to reflect on what happened with Cas. And that _hurts_. "Sammy, I'm not dealing with this right now. I'm sorry – I want you to leave, please."

Sam stands up, shock all over his face. He takes a couple of small steps forwards as Dean folds his arms.

"Dean wha – why are you so angry? I didn't _mean_ it, you know I didn't, calm down!"

Dean's throat begins to swell. God, no, nope, not crying, not again, what the fuck is wrong with him?

"Dean, I have to talk to you about this. Like I said, I've been getting headaches, and the day of the game-"

"Go to the doctor, Sammy," Dean whispers. "I'm sure he'll fix you up. God knows I can't. I know you want to talk to me. We'll talk, alright? This evening. Give me a call. But right now, I need to be on my own."

Sam's mouth opens and closes like a fish several times. Eventually, he seems to decide he's better off staying silent, picks up his coat and walks straight out.

Dean doesn't move. His mind, however, is racing, and it won't shut up.

_He's your brother. Can't even talk to your own brother anymore without screwing up._

_Maybe Cas was right. Maybe you are trying to escape. Run away._

_Fucked up._

_Messed up family, love life – not worth shit, are you?_

But, most predominantly, like a drum beating non stop:

Sam hates you. Cas hates you. They all hate you. Hate you, hate you, hate you hate you hate you HATE YOU HATE YOU HATE YOU

He wants to scream, and maybe he does, because next thing he knows the people from the apartment are hammering on his door and telling him to "shut the fuck up!". He shouts at them, them crawls into the middle of the floor. His phone rings, but it's Cas, so he doesn't answer. He just cries, and when that achieves nothing, he falls asleep instead.

He misses Sam's call, but for once he can't bring himself to care.

* * *

Sometimes, Dean thinks, shit happens. And sometimes, the only way to deal with it is to buy a bottle of vodka and get so roaring drunk you can barely stand up.

There is a little voice at the back of his head which insists on comparing him to his father right now, but he's doing his best to ignore it. There's something about old addictions resurfacing in there too, but since alcohol was never a problem for him he can't really be bothered trying to figure it out. Especially with the bottle in his hand.

He's not sure he can remember buying it, or getting up here either, but now he's on the roof of his building looking up at the star spangled sky and congratulating himself on having not jumped off yet. He keeps telling himself that he's not a woman, he doesn't need a man (he snorts internally) to keep him going. No, he's young, with a whole life to live, and – wow, stars are fucking pretty, aren't they?

He laughs. Cas is pretty too. But the stars are nicer. They don't try to cleave his heart open, or run away when he needs them. They're always there, constant, beautiful, shining… And maybe it's the vodka, but there seems to be more stars than usual tonight. Amongst the usual growing pinpricks, it appears that someone's thrown handfuls of glitter haphazardly onto the dark curtain of sky, and it all seems so luminous that Dean is taken aback.

God, he really should drink more often.

He watches the remnants of his drink slosh around in the bottom of the bottle, trying not to remember kissing Cas and thinking of nothing else. Even this sky can't compare to how beautiful it was. And to think Cas thought it was all for nothing, just a distraction…

Still, thinks Dean with drunken triumph, Cas had said he wanted him. At least there's that. Castiel Novak, with his big house and his money and his fancy education, wanted him, Dean Winchester, high school dropout and ex-junkie. How about that. And Dean doesn't even care about the gayness of it all now, because hey, he's fucked up enough and he'd been missing a questionable sexuality from his résumé. Yep, he's tired and depressed and messed up and alone, but it's his fucking life and he can do what he wants.

Just as he picks up the bottle to take another swig, he feels the buzz of his phone vibrating in his pocket. Tugging it out, he squints at the name on the screen: SAM. Grinning, he stabs the answer button and lifts the phone unsteadily to his ear.

"Yello, Sammy! How'ya doin'?"

Sam's reply is barely audible.

"Dean, something's happened."

"Oh yeah?" Dean screws up his face and tries to remember if he's pissed off with Sam or not, but he's not sure. Ah, well, forgive and forget – it's his brother, and he's smashed anyway. "Talk away, little bro. All ears."

"Dean, are – are you drunk?" Sam's voice is laced with suspicion and anger.

"No," replies Dean, and then, with afterthought, "Well. A bit. Maybe. Hey Sammy, don't you think that stars are fucking pretty - "

"Whatever, Dean! I need to tell you something important, okay? I've been going to the doctor. That's where I was instead of the game. I've been getting headaches, remember?" Sam's voice is steady but oddly strained, and Dean tries to pay attention, but it's hard.

"Headaches. Doctor. With you so far, I think."

Dean rolls onto his back, concentrating more on the sky than on his little brother's words. The vast space above him seems so endless, and he wants to jettison himself up as high as he can go. Get away from this building, this life – leave it all behind and submit himself completely to the numbness of nothing. He'd take Sammy too, of course. No leaving his little brother to the big bad wolves on Earth, he deserves space too – deserves a chance to fly away from his father and his crippling depression. This vastness envelopes Dean, and he welcomes it wholeheartedly, letting it lift him up and away, blissful and free…

"What did you just say."

Dean sits up sharply, senses suddenly aching with clarity. The sky doesn't feel open anymore, it's oppressive, pushing down on him and forcing him to listen, because that did not just happen, there's no way on God's green earth that Sam just said –

"A tumour, Dean. My tests came back positive. I've got a brain tumour."

* * *

Thanks for reading! Hope it was okay, let me know in the reviews :) I'll try to upload the next chapter as soon as possible, I've nearly finished writing it :D


	8. Visits

Okay. So.

I cannot even begin to apologise. I know it's been _literally almost_ forever since I updated. I suppose my only defence is the massive workload I've been getting recently, and also the writer's block regarding this chapter. It's been a real bitch to write, if I'm being honest, and every time I've sat down to tackle it I've just been completely unable to finish it. But last night, I forced myself to sit down, grit my teeth, and sort it out. I hope it's not too crap!

* * *

The next chapter is coming along a lot more easily, and I should be getting it up a lot sooner. Thank you all so much for your patience, here you go!

It's become routine. Every Tuesday morning. Dean can't even imagine life without it anymore. Tuesdays mean getting up at 6.00am sharp, washing every inch of his body, putting on his best clothes, checking that the car's in peak condition, driving to the comic store, picking up the same one he does every week, and then getting back in the car to head to his little brother. Tuesdays are Sam days, and Dean never misses them.

The comic book is Sam's favourite. Every week without fail. And now it's Dean's job to bring it to him, make sure he is absolutely up to date ob everything that's going on. Sam can't buy them himself anymore, and just by glancing at the date Dean know it's been exactly four months since Sam last set foot in that store. A whole year since that phone call to Dean. It seems like a lifetime ago now. Everything's changed.

Dean pulls into his usual parking spot, taking care not to scratch the cars on either side. He's never spoken to their owners, but he knows they visit their relatives at the same time he visits Sam. You notice other visitors here. Everyone comes for the same reason.

Getting out of his car, Dean sets off to find his little brother. He knows the way by now – it's not like they move him, or anything – and sure enough, there he sees him.

He walks straight past the old woman who always comes for her grandson at this time. Dean's used to her tears by now, and the lilies she always brings. They made him feel sick at first, but not any more.

Everyone else always brings flowers, but Dean never has.

A few metres down from the old woman and her grandson, he stops. Here's his brother. He puts down the comic in the usual spot, and says the same thing he always does.

"Hey, Sammy."

The cold grey headstone says nothing in response. But then again. It never does.

Dean squats down next to the heaped ground, which is still plastered in wreaths from his brother's friends. His mother's been here too, those are her trademark roses, and Dean notices the imprints of his father's boots on either side of the grave.

Dean hates that word. If there's one thing his brother was not, in those last few months, it was grave.

Every Tuesday, Dean comes here to remember, because he can't let himself forget. He fills Sam in on his life, too, and adds to the ever-growing pile of ragged, weather-worn comic books. Putting his hand over the spot where Sam's head would be allows the memories to wash over him, and he does so now, needing to remember it all.

Sam. Young and healthy. Sam. Traumatized by Jess's death, but alive. Sam, slowly recovering from his crushing depression. Sam, the first day Dean saw him after the phone call. And Sam, on that last peaceful afternoon in Dean's living room. It hadn't hurt him in the end, Dean knew. Or at least hoped. Watching TV, Sam had simply fallen asleep, and that had been that. Months of pain, treatments, attempted surgery – but in the end, it had been simple. No slow, torturous burning out, just a gentle breeze which had snuffed out Sam's spark in an instant.

Dean had stared at his brother for what must have been hours before the tears started.

And now, he tells his brother everything. Sam always wanted to _know_, and is Dean's news big today.

"It happened again yesterday, Sammy. God, I wish you could tell me what to do about it. It's driving me insane, do you remember last time?"

Sam knows all about Cas now. Dean has no secrets from his brother anymore.

"It's happening every time we see each other now. But he never wants to talk about it, you know? And I need him to acknowledge it, you know I do. I'm just so paranoid that he still thinks it's comfort, because that might actually kill me."

Dean stretches his legs out and rests back on his elbows. It's so easy to pretend this way that Sam's still living and breathing and listening right next to him.

"I'm sorry that I always go on about him. Every week it's the same crappy monologue, isn't it? But – I think you know how much I need to get it out. You could probably recite it all back to me now, couldn't you, like some teenage romance shit - " Dean pitches his voice higher, going into teenage girl mode "-'I first met Castiel Novak on a cold rainy morning in a run down old café. After what happened to you, things changed. Everything changed, and nothing more than me'." He smirks, and turns his head to where his brother's would be. "Not our sort of thing, right, little bro? Well, maybe yours. You always were way to into your Austen to possibly be normal."

Dean laughs too hard at this, and then suddenly he stops laughing, and feels the first tear of the day slide down his cheek at the memory of Sam's old reading habits. He bats it away impatiently, though, because he's used to the crying and he doesn't let it distract him anymore.

"I think – oh God, I think I might love him, Sammy. And I always thought that getting to kiss the person you loved was supposed to be – well, not _this_."

For the past year, Castiel has been the most supportive friend Dean could ask for. On days when things are particularly bad, Dean has had to physically force Castiel to go to school instead of coming to help him out. The resultant arguments are fun, but then, one way or another, they always end in a kiss. A kiss followed by a silence which, despite its frequency, Dean's never gotten used to. And then, soon enough, Castiel will be gone. He never acknowledges the kisses, and he never stops coming back the next day.

"I'm just sick of it, Sammy. And I swear to you now, this time I'm going to do it. I'm going to grab him by the shoulders, and I'll shout in his face that I'm not bullshitting him, and he _will_ listen, because I'll make him. So I'll tell him and tell him and tell him, and then when he finally believes me, I'll…"

Dean stops to run an hand over his face, and sighs.

"I won't walk out. I'll fucking kiss him, won't I. Because there's no way I can't."

Sam's headstone is as silent as ever, but Dean can picture his brother's response exactly. Sam's 'bitch-you're-in-deep-shit' face swims before his eyes, clear as day.

"You're right, Sammy. Jesus. This is never getting fucking solved, is it?"

The taste of 'Dean, you're an idiot' is tangible on the air.

Dean grunts and gets to his feet. He tugs his shirt down where it's ridden up, and places his other hand on the polished granite. His fingertips gently trace the crystals.

"I love you, Sammy."

* * *

TWO WEEKS LATER

* * *

"_Sammy, I did a bad thing, shit, help, JesusChristIdon'tknowwhattodoanymore."_

Dean staggers to the grave, hands shaking as his head whips around and tears roll of his face.

"I just – I just blew every penny I fucking own on a couple of needles."

He throws a twisted, tearful glance back at the car, where the heroin is hidden. Falling to his knees, his fingers rake the grass, and he rocks backwards and forwards in anguish.

"Shit, I need to shoot up, I _need_ to, fucking stop me Sammy, please, you're the only one who can stop me, fuck, _please_."

But his veins feel like they are on fire even as he pleads. How the _fuck_ had he been so stupid?

It had been one night. One ridiculous, drunken night. Cas away, on a school trip, Dean had headed down to a bar, and there he'd met none other that Alistair. His old dealer. It had taken one week of loneliness and a bottle of vodka, but soon enough he was putty in Alistair's well practiced hands. The liquid was searing through his bloodstream before he knew it, and his brain had been nothing but chemical ecstasy. Shared needles, unprotected sex – he could have done any of it, and he wouldn't know it. But now the drug's burnt out, and he needs more.

All those months of abstinence, down the drain. He couldn't care less. The only thing that can possible guilt-trip him enough now is Sam, and it _isn't working_.

Desperately, he thinks of Cas. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pictures that familiar face begging him to stop. But constantly there, lingering, is the knowledge that Cas does not and will never feel the same way about him, and at the thought he rakes his fingernails down his cheeks and screams as loud and as long as he possibly can. He can feel blood mixing with the tears on his face, and all the while he aches with need, his veins shrieking, crying out throughout him.

He can't control his legs anymore. And with the blood in his eyes, he can't see where he's going, either. But his body apparently does.

And the needle's in his arm, as he collapses to the ground, shaking and twitching and crying, riding the most terrible high of his life.

* * *

Dean's lying on Sam's grave when Cas arrives. It's the middle of the night, and he's been searching for hours.

To be honest, he thinks he's known where Dean was the whole time. He's just not sure he'd wanted to know what he'd find when he got there.

As he approaches Dean's twitching, unconscious form, he can't stop himself from flinching. Although he's known about Dean's past as long as he's known him, seeing his pale, shaking body amidst the grass sends a vile wave of shock right through him to his bones. Cas kneels down next to Dean and takes his hand, his slim fingers sliding across a limp wrist. The pulse is steady. Good.

Just as he's about to lift Dean towards his car, Cas glances up at Sam's grave, and leans in closer to read the words he already knows by heart.

SAMUEL WINCHESTER

1994-2011

BELOVED SON, BROTHER, AND FRIEND

'For death is no more than a turning of us over from time to eternity'

He wants to cry. But he's done enough of that already.

Although he'd only known Sam for an unfairly short period of time, he'd loved the boy like he was his brother as much as Dean's. When he'd gotten the phone call telling him that Sam had finally slipped away, no matter how peacefully, it had been like getting hit by a freight train in the chest. He remembers screaming at his mother during a particularly awful time, telling her that _doctors fix people! FIX HIM!_ But now, he does what Sam had asked him to, and tries his best to take care of Dean.

Laying a hand on Sam's grave as though it was a shoulder, he whispers,

"Hello, Sam. I'm sorry you had to see this. But I'm here now, and I promise I'll look after him."

Then, getting to his feet, he hooks his hands under Dean's armpits and drags him to the car, before driving them away. Sam's grave sits there, and watches them go.

* * *

Well, there you go. I love Sam, and I cried a bit, but I promise I did it for a reason. WHY AM I SUCH A MASOCHIST OMFG.

So, if you're still hanging onto this story (I swear to God I love you forever if you are) then drop me a review? I'll give you a new chapter as a thank you as soon as I can, I PROMISE!


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